


Neville Longbottom and the Bravest Boy

by 2babyturtles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beauty - Freeform, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Boy-Who-Lived Neville Longbottom, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Dark, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, POV Neville Longbottom, Pain, Sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:24:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: We aren't always the hero of the story, but maybe we're the hero of our own story. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone with Neville as the protagonist (mostly canon compliant). Structured around the HPSS chapters.





	1. The Boy Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> This will hurt your heart.

Frank and Alice Longbottom were extraordinary. Average in height, in weight, and in appearance, no one might’ve noticed them strolling through the streets of London in their signature striped jumpers and loving eyes. Average in ability, no one might’ve noticed them performing magic in the Leaky Cauldron. Instead, Frank and Alice Longbottom were extraordinary due to an incredible ability to love.

Certainly they were skilled in the arts of magic as well—you don’t get to become an Auror with meager abilities!—but compared to those they fought beside, they certainly didn’t stand out. Luckily for them both, they had given up on being extraordinary in any of these ways when they were still at Hogwarts, and now that they had graduated, married, and were enjoying life with a new baby, it was much easier simply to love each other and that little bundle of joy than it was to pretend that they were more special than that.

Alice had, of course, been pregnant at the same time as Lily Potter, a woman who was quite extraordinary in all the other ways. In the end, though, Alice would be remembered for her abilities and Lily for her love, and Alice would’ve thought that was just the right sort of funny for this funny world.

When Frank and Alice awoke to a blustery silver sky on this typical Wednesday morning, they had little reason to suspect that anything strange was happening in the world, or that their own participation in it would soon be over. As usual, Frank awoke first and went to retrieve Neville, who was just a year old, from his crib. The boy never cried and Frank found a smiling baby when he peeked into the nursery.

“Hello,” Frank stage-whispered, beginning the same game they played every morning. “What do you think Mummy would like for breakfast today?”

Neville never made any noise really, and this particular day was no different. Except, of course, that it was entirely different. Smiling up at his father, Neville clapped his pudgy hands together and giggled when tiny sparks appeared.

“Now, now,” Frank whispered, planting a gentle kiss against Neville’s curled black hair. They had tried to tame the mess but it never seemed to stay flat so they’d given up. “You have to wait for Hogwarts before you can do magic, little one. Although at this rate, they might take you before your fifth birthday!”

Frank chuckled to himself at the idea that he, the most average wizard to graduate Hogwarts—to his own mind, that is—had managed to take part in the realization of one of the strongest little wizards he’d ever seen. They hadn’t told Neville’s gran yet and they were eagerly awaiting the opportunity to show off their boy at the next family gathering.

Stepping quietly through the house and into the kitchen, Frank tucked Neville into a highchair and retrieved a bowl of soft food for him from the refrigerator. He and Alice had often talked about whether it was wrong to use muggle methods for such things, but a refrigerator seemed much easier than a chilling charm and with You-Know-Who on the loose, it was better to avoid magic when possible.

Frank tousled Neville’s hair and turned back to the refrigerator to retrieve some eggs and cheese, planning on a simple meal for Alice. She’d always been fond of her sleep and Frank often told her that’s why she was so beautiful. Usually, Alice would laugh and pull a face, at which Neville would laugh. Frank smiled at the thought and began preparing breakfast. Before he could make it too far, though, a sound from upstairs drew his attention.

For just a moment, Frank’s heart seemed to find itself lodged in his throat. This wouldn’t be the first time, or even the second or third time, that You-Know-Who had sent trouble their way and he hated to think of pushing their luck any further. Lily and James had had a similar experience and had insisted on getting a Secret Keeper because of it all. Their boy Harry had no idea that his parents were so important to the wizarding community, and Frank sincerely looked forward to watching him grow up and learn about it all.

Allowing his mind to follow this trail of thoughts kept him from being too concerned that anything strange was occurring upstairs, although he still wondered whether a Secret Keeper would be a good idea. He made a mental note to ask Alice her thoughts on the matter later in the day and opened his mouth to call out to her. Before he could, however, she darted lithely down the steps into the entry room, her face smeared into a look of equal horror and delight. It was strange for Frank to see his normally smiling wife wearing such an expression, not to mention the dressing gown she’d managed to get on inside out and mismatched socks she wore on the rest of her body.

“Lily and James,” Alice managed to get out as she moved to embrace her husband. A broken sob escaped her lips and she turned her eyes on her son, silently babbling in his chair. Practically dragging Frank alongside her, Alice collapsed around the highchair and hugged them both tightly.

“What is it, dear?” Frank asked, more worried even than he had been a moment before. For the first time, he noticed a piece of ivory paper clutched in Alice’s hand. Reaching for it as gently as he could, he flattened it out and immediately recognized Remus Lupin’s neat, spidery handwriting. The tremor, so characteristic of his finer movements, was not apparent, and Frank realized he must have been concentrating particularly hard on writing this note.

 

_James and Lily are dead. Peter is dead. Sirius is in Azkaban. Albus has Harry._

_Voldemort is dead._

Frank stared at this note for a very long time, not sure whether it was the first line or the second line that confused him more. Certainly the first line hurt more and he had to look down to ensure that the hole in his chest was only emotional, and that nobody had carved his heart out of his body when he read the letter.

“They’re _dead!_ ” Alice screamed, sobbing into Neville’s shoulder. The boy looked scared for his mum and Frank wondered what his own expression looked like. Breakfast long forgotten, Frank reached over and plucked Neville from his high chair, preferring instead to draw his wife and son into a firm grasp and mourn the loss of the most extraordinary people they had ever known.

 

After what seemed like an impossibly long time and not long enough at all, the sound of an owl, clattering against the nearest window, drew Frank’s attention. Well, it drew Neville’s attention. It was the infant who noticed it first and only a soft cooing sound from his small mouth alerted Frank and Alice to the arrival of a new letter. They stared at their son for a moment, too surprised that he’d made so much sound to consider whatever had arrived in the post.

Quickly, however, the owl’s persistent banging was enough to pull them from their reverie and Frank crossed the room to open the window in just a few steps. It dawned on him then, as sunlight poured in through the open curtains, that it was a very strange time of day to be receiving owls. Certainly Remus’ letter had been urgent, but who would risk sending more owls across muggle London all the way here?

Scarlet ink like so sprawling letters in blood glistened from the front of the envelope and Frank recognized Minerva McGonagall’s handwriting. He held up the letter to show his wife but Alice was only peering at her son, as if some part of her knew that it would be helpful to memorize his tiny face. She wouldn’t, of course, remember it for very much longer.

Cracking the wax seal on the envelope and sliding out a thick sheet of parchment, Frank read the new letter aloud. “It is imperative that you leave,” he began, his voice much weaker than he had expected. “Leave now.”

Frank wanted to look up at his wife again and to find her beautiful eyes looking back up at him. He wanted to tuck these letters away with the rest of his horrible morning and set about making breakfast, knowing that he and his family were safe. But he couldn’t, and they weren’t. Instead, he closed his eyes and only looked up at his wife when he was quite certain he wouldn’t cry.

To his surprise, Alice had picked Neville up and moved to stand in front of Frank before he could do all of these things. “We should leave him with Augusta,” she murmured. Her eyes were terribly sad and Frank wondered if his heart might break any more.

Frank hated to agree but found that he couldn’t find any sufficient reasons not to and nodded. He didn’t dare pry Alice’s son away from her when so much was going on, and he resigned himself instead to being the packer. They wouldn’t take much with them, but a single bag of the very basic necessities would certainly come in handy. Packing, of course, was the wrong term, since they had been prepared for this moment for a long time, although they hadn’t expected it to come quite like this.

As he took his first step towards the stairs, Frank was surprised to find Alice’s free hand wrapping into one of his and her soft footsteps following him as he made his way back to their bedroom. When they reached the second floor landing, Frank glanced first into Neville’s nursery, and then towards their own bedroom, where he ultimately headed. Alice remained close behind him and only let go of his hand to place Neville in the middle of their bed.

“That poor little boy,” she whispered, gazing at the infant.

“Augusta’s going to take care of him,” Frank responded sternly, hoping it was any consolation at all.

“No, I don’t mean our little boy,” Alice responded, nearly smiling. “I mean Harry Potter.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “Alice?” His wife turned to face him and peered up at him with eyes full of all the same things he was feeling himself. That knowledge almost brought him comfort. “I love you very much. I love both of you very much,” he added, nodding at Neville, who simply smiled. “I love you forever and ever.”

This time, Alice did smile, just the softest crease at the corner of her lips, and she pressed herself up on her toes to kiss her husband. “I love you also very much,” she replied quietly. “Forever and ever.”

Frank and Alice Longbottom lingered for just a moment longer in that place, quietly enjoying their last moments in this house they’d made into a home. It was an extraordinary moment and really a shame that none of them would ever remember that it happened.

It’s a funny thing, because they always say that the best place to put an infant is the center of the bed, where they can’t roll or tumble to the floor. In this case, when the windows of the Longbottom home erupted inwards, the center of the bed turned into a very safe place simply because a bundle of blankets covered Neville and left him well-protected from the glass shards that tore at his parents’ skin.

Neville didn’t see the tangled black hair of the witch who entered the home first, nor the men that were with her, but he always remembered her laughter. It was the laugh of a crazy woman and indeed, this woman was quite crazy. It was a very strange thing to hear a laugh like that at the same time as horrible screaming.

It was the sort of screaming that seems to never end and makes the hear-er wish they could do anything at all not to have to hear it anymore. Neville wanted to scream, too, but he didn’t because Neville never made any sound. He wanted to make those sparks fly from his hands again because maybe he could distract the terrible laughing woman so she would stop hurting his parents. But he couldn’t seem to do that, either.

When the laughing woman left and the Longbottoms were discovered, Frank and Alice still weren’t extraordinary. They hadn’t really died, although Neville certainly felt like it, and they certainly hadn’t stopped You-Know-Who the way that the Potters had. Instead, it was a just a few wizards from the Ministry who discovered the screaming Aurors in their house, on the floor, and arrested the laughing woman and the men who came with her. He wasn’t allowed to see his parents that day and his gran never looked quite as friendly as his dad or smiled quite as softly as his mum.

Augusta Longbottom tried very hard to take care of her grandson, even when her own husband passed away, too. She couldn’t bear to think that Neville would grow up weak when his own parents had been so extraordinary, and she went to great lengths to help the boy become strong. She also went to great lengths to make sure he knew his parents, even when it was harder than anything else for her to do.

**5 Years Later**

Clutching a bouquet of flowers in both tiny hands, Neville Longbottom trotted alongside Gran as they maneuvered through Muggle London. The city had always fascinated the five-year-old, particularly since his own magic was so disappointing to his family that his grandmother often threatened to leave him there; he supposed he should learn to love the city. Still, this particular visit was not a happy one, and he kept his eyes straight ahead.

Even at his young age, Neville understood that he wasn't the only one who was hurting. He'd never really gotten to know his parents, but Gran had. She'd lost a son and daughter-in-law when Neville lost his mum and dad. And now they were making their last trip to go visit.

There was a chance, of course, that they'd be able to go back someday, in five or ten or twenty years. When the nurse at St. Mungo's had explained that each visit seemed to be undoing all of the progress the young couple was making, the family had made the heart-wrenching choice to stay away. Although there was little hope that Frank and Alice would ever fully recover, there was a chance that they could at least learn to be independent, and that was worlds better than the 24/7 assistance they required now. The hospital staff had agreed and Gran had scheduled their final visit for today, dragging Neville along beside her.

He didn't fully understand—how could he? But he knew that his mum cried when he showed up, and that his dad just looked scared, and that was enough to convince him that Gran was right. He held onto that image as he followed her to the entrance of St. Mungo's, trying desperately to hold back the tears he knew were just brimming to the surface.

Gran performed the necessary—and very confusing—magic for entrance into the hospital and they stepped into the lobby. Healers moved about the halls with varying degrees of urgency and Neville sighed. He was grateful for the care they could provide, but he didn't really have anything positive to associate with the hospital, and the feeling of dread only grew as they made their way to Frank and Alice's rooms.

This part of the hospital was the most dreary, but often the least gory. Although there was less of the sorts of things Gran covered Neville's eyes for, the people in this ward weren't really people. Or they weren't really here. It was fairly often that someone would be mistaken for dead, simply because they'd ceased to really _be_. Neville wasn't quite sure what it meant to be dead, but he thought that it was probably being like this, except that you couldn't move your body anymore either.

They checked in at the main desk and gently pushed open the door of room 219. Neville peered around Gran's leg, clutching the flowers tightly and searching the room for his mother's sweet eyes. He wondered what it would be like to really have a mother.

For a moment, Frank and Alice Longbottom looked happy. They surveyed their young son with a beautiful serenity, and Frank almost seemed to recognize his mother. Neville and Gran took advantage of that brief time, because it always was brief.

Almost every visit was the same: they would arrive and everything would be nearly perfect, they would spend time together, usually about twenty minutes, and then something would change and Frank and Alice's faces would turn into expressions of horror. Then there was the screaming. The horrible screaming. The unbearable sound of agony that no child should have to hear their parents endure and that no mother should have to hear her child express. The pain of it was always too much, and as the Healers rushed into the room to help comfort the terrorized young couple, Neville and Gran would leave quietly, keeping their goodbyes to themselves.

But for the first twenty minutes, everything was okay. Neville reveled in that time. Gran, naturally drawn to her son, would sit beside Frank and fuss over his clothes or his hair, tenderly reminding him to take good care of himself. Neville, however, would sit on his mum's lap. He was never sure if she really wanted him to sit there or if she pulled him there because it just felt right. He hoped it was the latter; it felt right to him.

Alice Longbottom was soft and warm and very sweet. She had pretty hair and pretty eyes and pretty skin. Neville didn't think anybody in the world could be as pretty as his mum, and he loved to touch her cheek or her hair. He didn't have to say very much, and he didn't really have much to say, but Alice would always listen. She wasn't verbal yet, and so she didn't ever say anything back. But Neville loved to tell her about everything that had happened since the last time he'd seen her.

Sometimes he'd talk about magic, but since he didn't have very much, he liked to talk about other things. He'd tell her about London, or a book he'd seen, or a picture, or a toy. She always nodded and smiled like she knew exactly what he was talking about. Maybe she did.

And then the twenty-first minute would come. Sometimes it wasn't so precise, but it certainly felt like it to Neville. It didn't really seem like there was anything that triggered it, but it always happened. Sometimes he heard Gran and the Healers discussing different reasons based on what had happened, and he'd put his hands over his ears and hum until they stopped.

Frank and Alice apparently were happy enough most of the rest of the time. There were incidents but that was to be expected. One of the healers told him once that the only word they'd spoken since they came to St. Mungo's was "Neville," but he wasn't sure if they were just trying to make him feel better. He wished it was true. He wished he could hear his mum say his name. He knew he might not hear his mum say anything again and he couldn't even remember what her voice sounded like.

This visit—the last visit—would be different. There would be no twenty-first minute. Neville and Gran couldn't stand to leave with that image as their last one, although Gran would never admit how much it hurt her. They couldn't help pushing their time though. Ten minutes came and went with Neville sitting on his mum's lap and talking about the different words he'd learned for colors. This was easy because he could point at the flowers and tell her what colors they were.

Her eyes were so happy and so pretty. Now that he was five, he knew that they were blue. She watched, and smiled, and nodded, and Neville wondered if she knew the words for colors anymore. But he wouldn't have time to find out. Soon, almost fifteen minutes had gone by, and Gran tapped him on the shoulder softly.

"Time to go," she said softly. It seemed to Neville that her voice was funny. Like she was trying to swallow something too big while she spoke. He sort of felt the same, and thought she might be trying to swallow her sadness. Or perhaps her tears, because Neville's came out his eyes and hers never seemed to come out at all.

Neville nodded and cast a glance back at his mum. He placed one small hand on her shoulder and leaned up to kiss her cheek. He was surprised to find that it was wet, and he watched in shock as a single small tear slid down her face. Gran gasped softly but regained her composure and moved to stand by the door, a clear indication to Neville that they needed to leave. It really was too much to bear.

"I love you, Mum," he whispered gently. Sliding to the floor, he took the most normal steps he could manage, afraid that if he walked too fast he'd forget to remember this moment, and if he walked too slow he'd get stuck in it.

Slowly and very broken, his mum's soft voice rang through the heavy silence. "Goodbye, Neville."


	2. The Spannishing Grass

 

Nearly ten years had passed since Augusta Longbottom had received a letter, a visit, and a baby boy at her house. Nearly five had passed since she’d seen her son or his wife, and since Neville had seen his parents. In that time, she’d lost her husband, and her world just seemed a bit smaller now than it had before. Of course, Augusta was thrilled not to live in a world where You-Know-Who was at large, but the cost to her personally had been almost too much to bear. Now, with only her grandson left to carry on the Longbottom legacy of extraordinary wizards, Augusta found herself entirely disappointed.

She’d been a stern woman when Neville had first been brought to her care, and the boy had soon learned about strict discipline and stricter learning. He’d been taught everything Augusta could think to teach him about magic and muggles and the history of the wizarding world. Of course, Neville was still the same quite boy he’d been when he’d been taken from his parents’ house and rarely offered much more than a few short sentences about his thoughts on these topics. Augusta wouldn’t have preferred it any other way, although it would be nice if even one sign of magic had appeared in the boy.

Frank and Alice hadn’t commented on the boy’s abilities before they’d been…hurt. And now it was simply too late. Any magic Neville Longbottom possessed was more difficult to get at than his words were and Augusta was practically convinced the boy was a Squib. Her brothers and sisters were no better, and often sought out ways to torment him into revealing some accidental magic. Now, with just a few more weeks until his eleventh birthday and just a few months until he rightfully _should_ be starting at Hogwarts, Augusta felt the pressure more than ever.

“Neville?” she called, peeking out the window at the boy. He’d developed the traditional Longbottom roundness and his soft cheeks made him look much younger than he was. “Go upstairs and see what your Uncle Algie wants, he’s been calling for you all morning.”

“Yes, Gran,” he replied, picking himself up off the ground and making his way towards the backdoor. It was summertime and the crisp blue sky seemed to open up above them. A grin tickled Neville’s expression, as it always did when a sunny day made its way to his part of the world. Augusta often wondered if he remembered that his mother’s eyes were the precise shade of blue that dazzled them all so brightly that morning, but cleared her head of the thought.

She didn’t smile at Neville as he moved past her, although she wanted to. Discipline was more important to the lonely old woman than was love—after all, she’d loved her son and husband more than anything. No, if Neville Longbottom was going to uphold the family name, he needed discipline, education, and a good push. 

* * *

 

Neville was warm, too warm, and he couldn’t remember why. Darting past Gran and towards the stairs, Neville couldn’t help a grumbling feeling in his stomach at the thought of meeting Uncle Algie on the second floor. Last time they’d been anywhere with a suitable place to throw a boy from, family members had taken it upon themselves to toss Neville off a pier and into the water where he’d nearly drowned. Fortunately, his Gran had been so thoughtful as to teach him the muggle method known as _swimming_ and he’d made it out.

He would much prefer to sit outside in the sun, despite the cold, and peer up at the sky searching for clouds, but knew that saying ‘no’ to Gran was about as useful as saying anything else, so he didn’t try. Resigning himself to spending at least the next foreseeable bit of time indoors, he promised himself to go back outside before sunset and made his way towards the stairs.

Angling around the corner and up the first few steps, Neville was suddenly pulled back sharply by his throat. Turning to see what he’d gotten caught on, he realized two things at the same time: first, that his scarf had gotten caught on the railing and managed to mostly unravel despite the tug on his neck, and second, that he was too warm because he’d gone inside on a hot day with his scarf still on. Certainly an English summer warranted a scarf as often as it didn’t, but rarely did the indoors do so, and Neville had forgotten to remove his scarf.

“Neville!” Uncle Algie’s voice bellowed from upstairs. It wasn’t an unfriendly voice, but it was precisely the sort of voice that could become unfriendly if its owner became irritated. Funny, thing, too, because he sounded remarkably like Gran in that regard, despite no actual blood relation. Perhaps the decades of time spent together were enough to turn the siblings-in-law into practically the same person.

“I’m coming!” Neville squeaked, tugging his scarf off and leaving it at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ll come with you,” Aunt Enid called from behind him. He glanced back to see her carrying a plate of lemon meringue pie. “Not for you,” she tutted. “This is for your uncle. Go see what he wants, I’ll grab your scarf and be up in a moment.”

Neville smiled gratefully as his aunt set down the plate of pie and gathered his scarf. Bold Hufflepuff colors shimmered from the material and Neville felt guilty for a moment for having caught his dad’s scarf on the railing. Hoping he didn’t ruin it, Neville turned again and ran up the stairs as fast as he could, wishing not for the first time that he had longer legs.

“There you are, boy!” Uncle Algie said, standing precariously close to the window. Neville did his best not to let his eyes narrow and was grateful that his lack of expressive words typically extended to lack of expressive faces. “Come on over here.”

“Did you need me to grab something for you?” Neville asked, stalling. “Aunt Enid’s coming up with some pie. I can get some milk for you.”

It would be hard to describe Uncle Algie’s face as anything but disappointed then. Like all of the Longbottoms, Uncle Algie hated to be reminded of Neville’s sheer lack of extraordinary ability—or any ability for that matter—and the boy’s poor memory was just one of many such examples. Stifling a sigh, the older wizard took several steps towards Neville and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Technically, Ungle Algie was _Great_ Uncle Algie, and sometimes Neville thought he could see the young man his dad must’ve known in his boyhood. Now, though, Uncle Algie was a wizened old wizard with hardly any color left in his eyes or his hair. He was pale and sad, although he liked to act happy, and Neville often wondered what made adults act that way.

“Neville, I’m lactose intolerant. You know that.”

Neville did not know that. Last time he had seen Uncle Algie, the man had been allergic to peanuts. Today, he’d caught him eating them by the handful. He had no doubt that a glass of milk would do as little harm to Uncle Algie as it would to himself. But young boys don’t say such things to wizened old wizards, so Neville cast his eyes down instead.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Algie,” he replied softly. “Would you like some tea? I can just run downstairs and be back with it in just a minute.” He made a soft attempt to pull away but knew that anything more assertive might get him in trouble so he stayed in place when Uncle Algie’s hand didn’t move.

This time, the man did sigh. “I’d like a wizard for a nephew,” he decided suddenly, bending down and scooping grabbing ahold of Neville’s ankle. Suddenly, the man was not a wizened old wizard but a spritely man with enough upper body strength to carry a plump little boy across the room despite his protests.

Part of Neville wanted to fight, and indeed, he did kick and argue, but most of him knew it was a waste of time. With the window so near and the panes already pushed outward to reveal that shining blue sky, there was little to be done but be dropped. Certain that he would break his neck and die very soon, Neville set about contemplating the nature of magic. There was a good chance that such thoughts were his last hope so he might as well start now.

He wondered whether everybody who has magic is born with it, or if they can learn it later on. Thinking of Hogwarts, he resigned himself to learn whatever magic Squibs are capable of learning if he only survived the drop to the compact earth below.

When Uncle Algie reached with his other hand to gather Neville up and push him through the window, the boy hardly fought. Instead, he peered up at the sky and thought of magic. It was funny, though, because in that moment he could only think of his mother. It had been a long time since he’d seen her pretty blue eyes, and even longer since he’d seen her do any magic, but with endless expanses of azure heavens above him—or rather, below, from this angle—he was certain that his mother and magic were precisely the same thing.

“Algie, you have to try this pie,” Aunt Enid’s voice chimed from inside the house. “It’s your grandmother’s recipe and apparently your brother gave it to Augusta before passing on. Well now Augusta’s made it and she really does do it justice, I had no idea she could bake like this! Anyway, have a bite, it really is good.” Aunt Enid continued to prattle on about the pie and family recipes for some time and it was hardly interesting for Neville. However, it did remind him of his predicament and he wondered again at the duration of his fall to the ground below. Just in time, too, as Uncle Algie suddenly decided that lemon meringue was more interesting than his nephew, and released the boy’s ankle.

For a moment, Neville thought of shouting. But as his eyes trailed away from the wooden slats of the house as he fell past the window, they landed on the sky again and Neville smiled instead. “You always smelled like flowers, Mum,” he remembered gently. “Like roses.”

Perhaps he should’ve thought of another flower, because at that moment he landed in a rose bush and found that roses smell nice but do not feel nice. Jabbed with dozens of thorns, Neville did find his voice then and managed a low groan. Peering back up at the window, he realized that Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid were peering back down at him and clapping. From somewhere off to one side, Gran was clapping, too, and footsteps in the grass told him she was on her way to his rescue.

  
“Neville, boy, you’ve done it!” she shouted as she retrieved her wand from its place in her robe and performed a quick levitation charm. The spell managed to drag Neville back through the thorns he’d just landed in but he was soon free from the tangles of rose bush and very gratefully on his feet.

He was also not dead, which meant that he would be studying Squib magic from here on out. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that, but supposed it was better than dying. When he turned to see the roses, wondering if they truly did smell as sweet as his mother, he realized that none were there. The last hints of thorny vines were curling into the ground, leaving only smooth green grass behind.

“Huh?” he demanded of the sight. He turned back to Gran, who was beaming down at him with what seemed to be a truly proud expression, the first on he could remember receiving from the woman.

“You’ve done it!” she repeated, holding her arms out for a hug. “You’ve done magic!”

Perhaps it was simply luck, or perhaps it was another old wizard somewhere, but an owl hooted at that moment and drew their attention to the sky where a great grey dropped a gleaming ivory letter right into Neville’s scratched hands. His mouth opened at that point as he realized what this meant and Gran once again shouted that he’d done it, as well as a quick charm to remove the leftover thorns sticking out of his skin and clothes.

He pulled open the seal without hardly a glance at the front and passed the letter to Gran to read. Certainly it mattered to him that he got into Hogwarts, but he’d already made contingency plans should he turn out to be non-magical and he was more relieved than excited. Gran took the letter eagerly and read through it without a word, nodding as if it was what she’d expected. Neville wondered what Hogwarts acceptance letters looked like when she’d been in school, or even when his own parents had gone.

“I told you the boy was a wizard!” Uncle Algie shouted from the window above. Aunt Enid tried to agree but had managed to find room for lemon meringue in her mouth as well and merely grunted her agreement instead. “Just like his father!”

Neville couldn’t help frowning at that, and when he looked up again to meet Gran’s eyes, he realized she was frowning, too. “Just like both your parents,” she murmured. “It really is a beautiful blue sky, isn’t it?”

Gran didn’t smile because Gran doesn’t smile much, but Neville did, and he jumped forward to wrap his stubby arms around her stubby waist. “I love you, Gran, forever and ever,” he cried, pressing his face into her clothes.

Gran was still terrifying and certainly more likely to whack him with her umbrella than to offer to share it with him when the rains came, but in that moment, she decided to hug him instead. “I have something for you,” she said after a moment, a funny twist in her voice.

Neville pulled away to see that Gran’s eyes had a funny twist, too. Taking his hand, she pulled him through the yard and back to the house. Trekking back up the stairs, Gran led Neville to the bedroom that had been his father’s when he was a boy. Neville wasn’t allowed in this room without Gran and his own space in the house had been relegated to a guest bedroom downstairs. This room was special, though, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Pinned to the walls were posters of the Hufflepuff banner, a smiling picture of Neville’s dad with an exceptionally ugly plant that seemed to be screaming—Neville’s dad was wearing the most horrendous ear muffs Neville had ever seen and he thought they were perfect--, and what must have been an engagement photo of his parents together. Moving past these, Gran led Neville to the dresser, where she dug around for just a moment in the top drawer and retrieved a thin box. Passing it to her grandson, she smiled sadly at him as he opened it to reveal a short, thick wand made of a wood Neville couldn’t identify.

Neville didn’t say anything because Neville doesn’t say much, but Gran did. “Good for Transfiguration,” she murmured. “Your dad and the wand. It was his and I think it’s only right that you should have it. It’s what he would want.”

For a moment, they each considered another hug. Instead, Neville turned his attention to a thought that had been bothering him for a long time.

“Can we go tell them?” he asked, not daring to make eye contact with her.

The room was silent for a long time, and Neville might’ve sworn he could feel sparks crackling in his fingers, nervous as he was. When he couldn’t bear it any longer, he looked up to find Gran looking over his shoulder at the engagement picture Neville had noticed when they walked in. He’d spent a lot of time looking at the picture when Gran wasn’t around and he knew which one it was just by where her eyes were poiting.

“Get your cloak,” she said finally. “We’re going to London.”


	3. The Letters from No One

Hardly one to keep a family success to herself, Gran had been sure to send owls to practically everyone she knew to inform them that Neville would be going to Hogwarts after a particularly powerful display of magic. They’d been eager to visit St. Mungo’s to tell the only people that really mattered to either of them, but had been turned away. Although Frank and Alice’s conditions were improved, the hospital still required advanced notice before they could receive visitors, especially those that could be so potentially traumatizing. Of course, Neville and Gran had only discovered this upon their arrival in London and subsequent trip to the St. Mungo’s front desk.

“No matter,” Gran had said, clearly doing her best to act like she didn’t care. “We’ll just stop off for some parchment instead and I’ll get started on those letters.” So that’s what they’d done.

The trip to the Diagon Alley had been brief, and Neville could hardly bring himself to be excited, despite how eager he’d been to visit there before. Of course, since they hadn’t actually planned on this part of the trip, they hadn’t brought enough money to do his school shopping. Gran hastily decided that they would do so when they returned to see Frank and Alice in a few weeks and led Neville to the owl emporium with as much excitement as she could muster.

Shelves were lined with parchment in every shade imaginable and Gran tutted under her breath at particularly offensive colors, like magenta and gold. Several owls hooted and crowed at them from around the small shop but one stern look from the older woman silenced them and the woman at the front desk stared. Neville could hardly bring himself to have an opinion about such things and didn’t bother.

It had been two weeks since then and their upcoming trip to St. Mungo’s was still three more away. Gran had insisted they spend their summer in the usual way: cleaning the house. Neville supposed that Gran was probably one of the only witches in the wizarding world that refused to use magic for such tasks, instead insisting on Muggle methods. Except, of course, that she never used any herself. At the end of the day, after Neville had spent hours scrubbing, painting, or any number of other unpleasant tasks, Gran would magic away the mess and they would enjoy the new freshness of that part of the house.

As frustrating as these tasks, and his Gran’s lack of assistance, could be sometimes, Neville didn’t actually mind. In fact, he generally found them relaxing, which Gran said was odd for a little boy. He didn’t particularly mind being odd, though, and set about his work with contentment. He was in the middle of pulling up the carpet when the first owl arrived.

Brooding and massive, a Great Grey with a nicked beak fluttered through the open window and onto the wooden flooring Neville had recently exposed. For a moment, he was hardly concerned. It wasn’t uncommon to receive owls and he had greater things to worry about, like whether carpet staples had been installed for any particular purpose other than to jab his fingers. He still hadn’t figured out why Gran didn’t magically handle these sorts of chores and was far too irritated to care about the morning’s mail.

The owl, however, was persistent. Extending its leg forward to reveal a neatly bound note rolled into a tube, it squawked loudly and stared at Neville with sharp eyes. It squawked again when he didn’t make any move to retrieve the note.

“Gran!” he called, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Gran, there’s an owl!”

From the next room, Gran responded after the clattering of china told him she set her cup of tea down. “Well get the note then!” she shouted back. “It’s probably for you anyway!”

This caught Neville’s attention and he peered back at the owl with a new expression. Nearly to his hips, the owl was a menacing sight, although not an unfamiliar one, and he was certain he’d prefer to avoid a scuffle. Taking a cautious step forward, he felt better when the bird extended its leg again and hooted more calmly than before. It broke eye contact and turned to look the other way, as if to promise not to bite.

Neville retrieved the letter from the bird’s leg without incident and smiled gratefully at it, offering a gentle rub before it left through the same window it had come in. The note unrolled when Neville removed the string holding it shut and he only got a few words in before he realized it was not for him at all.

“Gran,” he called again, making his way across the room and through the door to where Gran sat on a frumpy red couch. “It’s for you. Something about turnips and Uncle Algie’s hairline,” he recounted briefly, passing her the note.

She frowned at it with a squint as she took in its contents and Neville didn’t wait for her to finish. Returning to the carpet and artfully stabbing himself with two more staples before he found an adequate grip, Neville did his best to focus on the work he was doing. Unfortunately, his mind turned elsewhere.

He hadn’t really expected to get owls expressing any sort of excitement for his upcoming Hogwarts attendance, after all, it was the norm for young children of wizards and witches to do just that. But now that Gran had mentioned the possibility of him receiving mail, it struck him as odd that he hadn’t. He couldn’t help worrying that Gran had told the story of his discovery of magic badly, and family thought he only had weak abilities. Then he worried that he really did only have weak abilities.

Stifling a frown as he gave a massive tug and revealed another section of gnarled wood floors, Neville set his mind on anything except the letters he was not receiving. Unfortunately, even thoughts of his upcoming trip to St. Mungo’s weren’t good enough now, and he hated to think that his own parents might be disappointed, too. He supposed they wouldn’t be able to tell him so anyway, and the thought made him sadder.

It wasn’t until nearly half an hour later that Gran entered the room to check Neville’s progress and instead found him sitting in the corner with his head on his knees and tears on his cheeks. His face was red and splotchy when he looked up and a grimace crossed his expression when he realized he’d probably be in trouble for not being done already. He moved as quickly as he could to stand up but Gran put a hand on his shoulder and kept him in place.

“What is it, boy?” she asked, as much concern as contempt in her voice. Her crisp green pencil skirt and jacket made a ruffling sound as she moved to stand in front of her grandson, and Neville wondered whose eyes were more penetrating: hers, or the stuffed vulture’s upon her hat.

“I dunno,” he huffed, stifling a sniffle and avoiding looking up at her.

“You do know or you wouldn’t be pouting about it. Spit it out.”

Neville frowned again and wondered at his options. Lying to Gran was rarely a good idea, particularly since she was a skilled Legilimens. However, telling the truth also seemed risky and he hated to imagine what she’d say if she said anything at all. Finally, he settled on a partial truth.

“I just wish Mum and Dad could…y’know. I wish I could tell them about my magic,” he finished lamely. In truth, he wished he could tell them much more than that. He wished he could ask them about their time at Hogwarts and ask them why they hadn’t been safer all those years ago. He could feel the brimming of tears in his eyes again and closed them tightly.

“You’re going to go to Hogwarts,” Gran said after what seemed like a long time. “You’re going to learn to improve your magic. Someday, if we’re all very very lucky, we’ll get to see you do the Longbottom name proud.” She turned to leave the room and Neville wondered if her words came from knowing the real source of his sadness at the time, or if she was simply more worried about the family name than anything else. She paused by the door and closed her eyes for a moment. “You’re just like your mum, you know.”

Gran didn’t wait for a response and slipped from the room with sharp footsteps and ruffling skirts telling Neville she’d gone to sit in precisely the same spot she’d recently been. She didn’t comment on the carpet and he supposed that was something to be grateful for. Pushing himself to his feet, he went back to work and considered Gran’s words. It bothered him that she didn’t seem to mean it as a compliment when she told him he’s like his mum, but he couldn’t actually be bothered by the comparison.

He cautioned a glance out the window and wondered if his own eyes were the same sky-blue as his mum’s, or if he smiled a little bit in just the same way. Perhaps, if he was very very lucky, he’d do her proud. The arrival of a second owl caught his attention, and this time he simply pointed it towards Gran.

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that his family was un-celebratory about his Hogwarts acceptance. He supposed it would be terribly annoying to receive more than a couple owls a day and he certainly didn’t want to be famous for being the boy with too many letters going to his house. Besides, his birthday was just a week away and he’d probably receive sweets in the mail if all went well. That was better than a letter from anyone. Almost anyone.

It wasn’t until the day of his birthday arrived that Neville discovered why he’d not received any letters. Despite the general goings-on in the community, celebrating the birth of the Boy Who Lived (Neville thought this was very strange considering the Boy Who Lived was just a boy, and would probably like to get a birthday card more than a party he wasn’t invited to), Gran had managed to pull together a great number of friends and family to a small-scale celebration at their house. With fresh paint, a thorough scrubbing, and a new carpet, the place was perfectly suited to the occasion Gran had in mind and Neville found himself beaming in pride as guests arrived and commented on how nice the house looked.

Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid came first, the latter carrying a collection of pies evidently meant to compete with Gran’s lemon meringue. Uncle Algie was oddly happy to see Neville and shook hands with the boy as if he was the man of the house. Neville grinned back at him, enjoying the attention.

“Funny thing, those muggle methods you insist on, Augusta,” he called, looking around the living room as he removed his coat. Usually they would Floo directly in, but Gran had insisted they Apparate outside and come in the front door to avoid any new dust getting on the floor.

“They work well, though, don’t they? You won’t find a bit of dirt in this place today,” Gran responded with as close to a playful tone as the stern woman was capable.

“Oh, I bet I could find some dirt,” Uncle Algie responded playfully. “What’s the occasion anyway?”

Gran rolled her eyes and Neville laughed but they didn’t have time to respond before the next set of guests arrived. Gran watched Neville throughout the night, painfully aware that there were no children in attendance and worried that the boy wouldn’t enjoy himself. To her pleasure, however, he seemed perfectly comfortable and even a little honored to be the center of attention in a group of people that had so long held him at a distance. Just a little magic was all it took.

Dinner and dessert had not been made with Muggle methods and the dishes seemed endless. Plates of Neville’s favorite foods, and a few Longbottom classics, made their appearance and the group dug in eagerly. One of their neighbors, Mrs. Bahm, ate so much mashed potatoes that they were briefly concerned she might explode.

A few owls did arrive for Neville that night, as family and family friends who couldn’t make it sent their congratulations and their apologies. Neville carefully flattened each letter and Gran found a small box for him to keep them in. It wasn’t until the last guests had gone for the night that the letter from no one came.

“Gran!” Neville called in a high voice, clutching a note in one hand and making a fist with the other.

“What is it, boy?” she demanded, not appreciating the undue stress his shouting had caused her.

He turned the note towards her to reveal two sets of handwriting, each equally poor. Scrawled in what appeared to be crayon were the words “love u” on one side, and “happee birthdae” on the other. Neville opened his other hand to reveal a crumpled gum wrapper. He couldn’t stop smiling.

Gran wondered for a long time after that how big a role the healers at St. Mungos had played in getting the letter to Neville and at some point when he was older, Neville would wonder, too. But he never lost the letter and it was only the first of dozens of gum wrappers he’d collect from his parents over the years.

“Two more weeks,” Gran reminded him, counting down until their trip to St. Mungo’s just as much as he was. “Better start writing down all the things you want to tell them about.”


End file.
